


A Broken Bastard

by Decent_Arrow78



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, Boot Worship, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Mutilation, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13200948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decent_Arrow78/pseuds/Decent_Arrow78
Summary: Life isn't easy when you're the slave of Ramsay Bolton.





	1. Good Morning

Ramsay woke up in his bed with a sigh, pushing the blanket off of him when he realized that the next day had arrived. He remembered how the wildlings were screaming and shouting when they were slaughtered one after one, and the Lord Commander was almost trampled to death. Jon Snow wasn't as brave as everyone thought he were. Ramsay sat up and smiled down at the man that was on the floor.

"Good morning," he said, running his hand through black curls. The battle was won, and not only did he have Winterfell, but he had his own spoil of war. The bastard's place was on the ground when he slept, and he always waited for Ramsay to wake up. He had learned what would happen if he decided to move himself. Jon Snow wasn't free anymore, he knew that.

Ramsay took his white face into his hands, watching the terror in his eyes. He always tried to be good, to show that he was obeying every single command. Jon had experienced great pain, especially the first few weeks. Ramsay had shaped him into his slave, and both of them knew that he wouldn't run away anymore. Jon couldn't help but slightly tremble when he felt his master's hands on him. Normally those hands would beat him, and it was an unfamiliar feeling when they weren't.

"I had a very pleasant night, Jon. Did you?" he asked, knowing that Jon didn't even manage to close an eye. He had taught him a lesson the day before, and he cried and cried and cried. Jon ended up begging for mercy, and he thanked him when he stopped. Ramsay stroked his cheek, and Jon cringed. "I suppose not. But that's alright." He was toying with the thought of removing skin again, to strap him to the cross where he belonged when he was bad. Sometimes, Jon behaved as best as he could and still ended up on the cross. It was enjoyable to watch the disappointment on the bastard's face. "On your hands and knees," he commanded.

Jon didn't think when he heard his voice. He knew that a command was to be obeyed, no matter what the reason was. He used to do it, and it had only brought him suffering. Crawling forward, he stayed on his hands and knees. Ramsay was standing up from his bed, tilting his head as he observed his slave. He slowly walked around him, looking at the scars and bruises on his back. Some of them were from his belt, some from the knife. Jon's feet had been wounded terribly days ago. Ramsay had punished him and let him stand in small pieces of broken glass. 

He brought his hand to his hip, moving his thumb up and down another large scar. Jon was silent, but Ramsay knew how much he hated it to be inspected like a pig that was about to be slaughtered. "Your hands," he said, and Jon didn't let him wait, bringing his hands forward, keeping them flat on the floor. Some of his finger have been broken before, and they were healing. Ramsay stood in front of him, and he didn't dare to look up before he wouldn't get the command.

Ramsay stepped on his hand, pressing his fingers down, and Jon hissed through his teeth to refrain himself from screaming. Tears welled up in his eyes as he felt two of his healing fingers being crushed by his foot, and he tried to endure it, knowing that it would be terribly wrong to remove his hand. One of the most important rules for Jon was to never defy his master, never. Ramsay stepped off his hurting hand and continued to walk around him. 

Jon became nervous when Ramsay didn't talk. He never knew what he was thinking, and to not hear his words made him worry about further punishments. His dry lips parted, aching as they moved, and he wanted to beg him so badly. Jon didn't exactly know what he wanted to beg for, but he knew that it was the only thing he could do in order to communicate with him. He gulped, carefully turning his head to see what Ramsay was doing. 

"You look fine, Jon. Not what I expected," Ramsay told him as he caught him looking at him. "Jon, did I allow you to look at me?" The question felt like a kick to the ribs, and he quickly stared down at the ground like he always did when he didn't know how to answer. He didn't mean to disobey Ramsay. The last thing he wanted was to anger him. Ramsay was the only person left who took the time caring for him. He didn't decide to let Jon die, instead, he kept him, and Jon was grateful for that.

Ramsay was standing in front of him again, and Jon felt ashamed. He gulped a second time, trying to find words that could explain, but he had lost the ability to do that. Jon belonged to him, he often told him that he didn't need to think or to make decisions because he was too stupid for it. He whimpered when his master's hand was in his hair, yanking them back harshly. Jon already whispered pleas, afraid of disappointing him.

"When I ask you a question, you answer. It's very simple, even for such a stupid thing like you," Ramsay said, and Jon was nodding because he knew that it was the truth. That amused Ramsay, and he let go of his hair, curious to see how his little slave would try to talk his way out this time. He acted as if there were a problem with the way he behaved often, only to see fear and misery creep into that face. Ramsay had pushed him over the edge with his mind games often enough, and it broke him. "Jon, I won't ask you again. Remember what happens if you make me repeat myself."

Gruesome memories came back, and Jon tried to push them out of his head. No, he couldn't allow himself to be disrespectful. Not to Lord Ramsay. Jon opened his mouth to speak, and Ramsay raised his brows. "No, you didn't. I am sorry," he said, "I wasn't allowed to look at you," he added. The old Jon would have found it pathetic to apologize for something like that, but that was the old Jon. Now, he didn't question a single thing. "I am sorry, master." 

Ramsay's lips curled into a smirk, and he placed his hand on his head, ruffling the wild hair. Jon was so afraid, and the temptation to make him feel horrible and guilty was great. "No. No, you weren't. But you still did. You know what that means," he began, and Jon instantly panicked inside. He didn't want to be punished, to be hit or cut or humiliated or be told how bad he was. Jon's lips quivered, and he shoved his face in Ramsay's leg, slowly rubbing it like a dog who pleaded for attention. But it wasn't attention he was seeking right now, it was mercy.

"Please have mercy, master. I am sorry, so sorry." Jon didn't look into his eyes and hid his face in his leg again, but the moment didn't last long. Ramsay pulled at his hair again, pushing him away from him which resulted in Jon losing his balance. He didn't make a noise when he hit the floor, but the sadness was obvious as it appeared on his face. Ramsay shook his head and walked toward him as he was lying on his back, revealing all of his deep scars on his body. Jon wanted to beg again, but he let out a groan when Ramsay pressed on his balls, causing him to whine. 

"You should be grateful that I didn't cut your little cock off. It wouldn't be the first time that I do it," he warned, watching Jon's eyes becoming wide. "You wouldn't have use for it anyway, would you? Slaves don't get to have children, Jon," he reminded him gently, tormenting him further, reveling in his struggling. "So why should I let you have it? Why should I let you have something you wouldn't use? It would be good meat for my hounds, or at least, a bit," he chuckled as he mocked him. 

Jon had met the hounds before. They had chased him when he tried to run. He had been so aggressive and determined to kill Ramsay with his own hands, but he had ended up with his face in the dirt, realizing that he had lost. Jon never saw Sansa again, and he hoped that she was alright. Perhaps she had found a way to run away. It was strange for Jon to think of the battle. He wasn't the same person, and Ramsay hadn't been his master back then. Jon couldn't properly remember when he changed. He remembered that Ramsay was talking to him, and he was slowly losing his patience. His balls were hurting, and he had to think of an explanation before he would lose them.

"You don't seem to think of them as important, bastard," he said, and Jon shook his head quickly. He wished that he could find a way to speak, but he was too afraid to say something wrong, like he always did. Ramsay laughed. "You are seriously entertaining me! If I were you, I would be screaming!" He thought that the whole situation was hilarious. Ramsay stepped away from Jon, chuckling to himself. He already knew how Jon was and how easily he got frightened, but he amused him particularly much today. "You managed to make me laugh. I'd say that's a good apology," he said gently, softly kicking him in the leg.

Jon was breathing heavily, slowly sitting up. If Ramsay told the truth, and he just appeased him, he was more than relieved. Without hesitation, he crawled forward, not caring about his wounded knees. "Thank you. Thank you very much, master," Jon said, and he was sincere. Ramsay played with his hair as he knelt before him. He liked to let him be naked, to let him feel weak and vulnerable. Ramsay had heard those words so often, and he never grew tired of them. Thank you. Please. No. Mercy. Sorry. They were normal words for Jon. 

Ramsay pinched his cheek and slapped him. It almost knocked Jon over, and before he could properly react, he already pulled him by his hair, grinning to himself as he positioned him right in front of the wall. Without a warning, Ramsay slammed his face into the wall, feeling his cock twitch as he heard the sound of Jon's nose breaking. Blood streamed down his face, and he was lifting his hands to touch his destroyed nose while he groaned in pain. His reactions amused him way too much, and he couldn't stop torturing the poor slave. "I forgive you, Jon," Ramsay said, but he wasn't done yet. He wanted to make Jon cry. He took a look at his bloody face and gasped. "Jon! That looks horrible!" Ramsay saw how Jon's lips were quivering again. He surely had hoped that he wouldn't be handled like that today.

Jon was on his knees, shaking lightly as he feared to be hurt further. Ramsay spent his days finding new ways to torment Jon, and it felt even better doing so when he wasn't expecting it. He had let him crawl after him the whole day, humiliated him in front of his men who had cheered and laughed along when he beat him bloody or plunged his head in water. The men had shouted at him, calling him a bastard and a traitor, and Ramsay sat and watched while they were busy kicking him until he didn't react anymore. In the end, he always crawled to him, pleading to be spared from pain, and it only urged him to degrade him more.

Ramsay thought that it was the perfect day to demonstrate Jon what his place was again, and he placed his foot on the man's head, pressing his abused face in the floor. Jon didn't try to get away like he used to once. He felt terrible for causing Ramsay to treat him like that, and he felt guilty, even if there wasn't a reason. Jon thought that he deserved it, that it was the price for being what he was - a bastard and a traitor. He thought that his nose would fall off, and Ramsay didn't remove his foot from his head.

"You are a little, ungrateful brat, Jon Snow. The only reason why I keep you alive is because you don't bore me at the moment. I wanted to feed you to my hounds. And yet you are here, in my chamber, very alive. Remember what you are, bastard. You don't mean anything to anyone. You are here to amuse me when I get bored," he stated with a cold, firm voice. Ramsay took his foot off of his head, and he remained in the same position, forehead pressed to the floor as he knelt before his lord. 

Ramsay turned away from him, and Jon lifted his head carefully, the ground smeared with his blood. He was putting on his clothes and didn't look at the weak man whom he had tormented until he almost broke out into tears. Jon crawled forward without being told to until he reached Ramsay. He was looking up at him, waiting to hear that he didn't disappoint him with his disobedience.  
Jon kept kneeling at his feet like a dog, waiting until he would have his attention again. He almost apologized again, but he remembered what happened once as he did it too much.

Ramsay sat down to pull on his boots, and Jon started to help him with it. He didn't expect him to thank him and was glad when he was completely dressed. The happier Ramsay was, the better. He always let out the anger on him, and he didn't want to risk it this time. Ramsay felt annoyed yet playful, and he pushed Jon's face away with his hand. "Don't cling to me, bastard. You have bothered me enough lately," he said coldly, seeing the pain in Jon's face. He did it on purpose, licking his lips when he felt his cock stiffening more in his pants. Ramsay glanced over at the little table, spotting his knife. 

He got up from his bed, ignoring Jon's pathetic attempts to be near him, and he picked up the sharp knife. Jon hated the knife, he was utterly afraid of it. He had teased him enough with it, threatening to cut off body parts or letting it slip intentionally to make him bleed. Ramsay was tilting the knife, wondering how he could use it today. He turned around, and as soon as Jon saw what his master held in his hand, he automatically shifted back. 

Jon startled up when Ramsay rammed the knife into the table, wood splintering. Then, he sat down on the chair beside the table, lazily placing his arms on it. "Entertain me," he said to Jon, fully leaning back on his chair. Jon dreaded it. It was his least favourite game to amuse him, and it always involved humiliating himself. Ramsay had the feeling that this day would become brilliant, and he looked down at the bastard, patient. 

Jon bent forward to kiss his boot, assuming that it wasn't a bad thing to do. He noticed how Ramsay shifted in his seat, and his lips made contact with the leather again, this time with the other boot. He grimaced slightly whenever it brushed his crushed nose, and he remembered the sharp, dangerous knife that could be in Ramsay's hand in any second. Jon looked up at Ramsay, only to see a cold face, and he ran his tongue over the leather, over and over again. He watched as the shame arised in Jon.

"If you want to clean them, do it properly," Ramsay commanded from above, "slave." He liked to remind Jon of what he truly was. Every single time he saw that pouty, soft face, he wanted to ruin his soul more and more. The bastard was licking the bottom of his boots, and he would give anything to know what was going on on his mind right now. He wanted to know if he felt ashamed, furious, sad, scared, broken or if he simply felt nothing. Perhaps Jon didn't think of anything at all anymore, doing everything that he told him to do because he knew that he didn't have another choice. "Enough," Ramsay said softly after he stopped losing himself in thoughts, and Jon looked up. "You are boring when you don't talk, Snow. Tell me how you feel."

Jon was alarmed as he heard the word _boring_. He didn't want to end up like those who bored Ramsay. Then he remembered his question. How he felt? He didn't know how he felt. Jon felt lucky to have such a kind master who kept him alive, but he was terribly scared of him at the same time. Back then, he tried running away, but now he wouldn't even dream of it. What was it that Ramsay wanted to hear? It could be a game, and if he lost, this knife would be buried in him. "I am sorry, my lord. I feel," he started, but he didn't know. "Grateful," he finally answered. It was the first thing that came to his mind, but his hope was gone when Ramsay started to laugh.

"Well, at least you are funny, bastard. But that's not really how you feel, is it?" Ramsay asked, and he turned his head to the knife that was stuck in the table. Jon saw, and he almost stopped breathing. It didn't help him to look at him with his big, dark eyes, and Ramsay took the knife into his left hand. "Do you know what would be even funnier?" he asked, looking down at the man that knelt at his feet. Ramsay slapped him hard, and he whimpered as his head was thrown to the other side so violently. "Answer me, slave," he said, and he slapped him a second time, just because he felt like it.

"Please, master Ra-" Jon was interrupted when a hand landed on his mouth while another held his head in place. Ramsay changed his mind, and he preferred it when he was silent. He always had an annoying voice, and he smirked cheerfully when a tear escaped his eye. Jon felt incredibly pressured, he was desperate to be good, begging not to be punished. But Ramsay didn't feel like showing him mercy. 

"I can't stand your voice. Everything you say is pathetic, so you better start closing that mouth of yours now," Ramsay said, slowly removing his hand from his face. For a short moment, he imagined Jon choking on a cock. It didn't even have to be his own cock, any would do. At least, it would take the ability to speak from him for a moment. Jon's cheeks were red, and he wished that he knew what could make his master be merciful. Jon didn't forget about the knife.

Ramsay held it against his lips. He saw how Jon's eyes were pleading, and oh, how they were pleading. Jon let out a heartbreaking cry when Ramsay made a quick, smooth cut through his bottom lip. His frustration made him moan quietly, and he saw the blood on the knife. He grabbed Jon's chin and leaned forward, crushing his cheeks in his hand as he licked the blood off of his lip. Ramsay ruined his face, and he had the huge urge to make him bleed all over. That pretty begging only added to it.

Ramsay enjoyed the taste of his slave's blood on his tongue, and he watched in terror as his master came closer with the knife. "Please, master!" Jon pleaded, but there was no place for mercy in Ramsay's dark, rotten heart. More blood was running down his chin, and Ramsay leaned forward again, greedily licking it off his face while Jon cried in silence. He felt his master's tongue running over his lips once again, collecting every single drop of blood he could find.

Ramsay couldn't get enough, and he held his head in place, biting on the already sliced lip, sucking up more blood. Jon groaned into Ramsay's mouth, and his tongue eventually invaded Jon's mouth to find the remaining, red liquid. The bastard slave couldn't stop weeping, and it got worse when his master drew back, seeing his own blood sticking to his lip. Ramsay's eyes were wide, and it scared Jon. He looked like a wild beast that was about to rip him apart with his teeth.

Ramsay licked his own lips and stroked Jon's hair softly, letting him cry his eyes out. He knew that his master loved blood, but it was a dreadful experience to be used like that, like a little plaything. Ramsay took his face into his hands, his own only a few inches away, and their noses almost touched. He was staring into Jon's eyes, and they pierced him like a sword, making him cry harder. Jon wanted it to stop, but then his lips were smothered by Ramsay's, and every single movement on his cut lip hurt way too much. He was moaning in pain, but it didn't do anything to make Ramsay's hunger disappear. 

He bit into his lip again, and Jon started to sniffle, praying that this would end soon. "Master, please," he tried to say, but Ramsay's teeth were too busy ripping his lip open, and he realized that it was useless. He kept pleading and pleading, but it was as if Ramsay didn't even hear it, licking more of his fresh blood off of him. Jon could taste it himself, and he felt disgusted. He wanted to scream when Ramsay's tongue returned, searching in his mouth, and he grabbed Jon by his hair as he tried to move away. He couldn't take it anymore, he wanted to bite Ramsay to stop him, but he couldn't.

Ramsay buried his teeth in his bleeding bottom lip and pulled at them, hard, making Jon cry out. Finally, he drew back, observing the other's destroyed face. It was exactly how he wanted his slave to look like, and everyone else should know to whom he belonged. Ramsay leaned back on his chair and swung one leg over the other, but the knife never left his hand. He wasn't done yet, it seemed. Jon stopped crying, though it was apparent that he felt like the lowest thing on the world, which he was. "Jon, which hand beat me?"

Jon didn't understand first. Then, it was clear. Back then, he was beating his master's face until he was bleeding, thinking that he defeated him, but then he had been shot in the arm by one of the men in Ramsay's army. He felt incredibly bad and evil as he remembered what he had done. This was the old Jon. Ramsay was waiting, playfully tilting the knife in his hand, a soft smirk coming back as he fully realized what he was doing to the poor, confused bastard. 

Without an answer, Jon lifted his right arm, his fingers shaking. Ramsay took his wrist, first gently then harshly, squeezing it in his own hand. He looked at Jon with a disappointed, serious face, and suddenly, it softened. "Place your hand on the table." Jon felt how his wrist was being freed, and he did was he was told, keeping his hand flat on the wooden table. He expected Ramsay to cut his hand off and stared at the ground, and then he felt it.

Ramsay placed his own hand on his, softly smiling at him as he looked back at him. "I'm so sorry," he babbled without thinking, and Ramsay stroked his hand. "I really am," Jon added, and his master raised his finger, signalizing him to be silent. He gulped a lump and obeyed the wordless command, looking at his own hand that was protected by Ramsay's. The Bolton placed the tip of his knife under Jon's fingernail and pressed. Jon's scream filled the chamber, and he was crying again as he felt the pain spreading in his hand. Ramsay tilted his head as he focused on his finger, removing the fingernail with his knife with care, watching as new blood left the bastard's body.

But that wasn't everything. Jon's eyes became wide as he saw that Ramsay placed the tip of the knife under the fingernail of his pinkie, removing it even slower, and the pain was unbearable. Jon stared at his hand, realizing that Ramsay just removed two of his fingernails. His master truly had no mercy when it came to such a behaviour. Ramsay didn't even blink as he kept crying and whimpering, sobbing and sniffeling. 

Ramsay simply placed the knife back on the table, looking at his devastated slave. He was licking his lips, and his cock strained against his breeches when he saw the bloody fingers. Jon was perfect in this condition. He wanted to destroy his body further. Ramsay thought about burning him, flaying his hands and feet, or his cock. The screams would be wonderful, and they would manage to make him come in his pants. Even now, he wasn't done with his bastard. "Hand on the floor," he said, and Jon almost refused.

Jon placed his shaking, bleeding hand on the ground, and Ramsay stepped on his tortured fingers, further crushing them under his boot. The slave was screaming and sobbing, gritting his teeth as they hurt and hurt and hurt. He told himself that he deserved this, that his master could do anything he wanted. Ramsay decided to spare the man and removed his boot, and Jon's hand felt as if it almost fell off. The Bolton was pleased, and he thought that he tortured his slave enough for the moment. The day only began, and he was already planning more in his sick, twisted mind.


	2. It Only Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay plays a game with Jon.

Ramsay smiled and cheered as he stood on the wooden platform, watching two men fighting each other in the courtyard. First they had started with swords, and now they ended up using their fists. He didn't exactly know why they were doing this, but it was a nice thing to see this morning. Of course, there was something that was even better. 

Jon knelt beside Ramsay, a thick rope bound around his neck. He was holding the rope like a leash, his grip tightening on it whenever he felt his slave moving. Ramsay turned his head after a while, looking down at him. He sensed how alarmed he instantly became, and he gave the long rope a harsh pull, making him choke. Ramsay chuckled and continued watching the courtyard. 

"Have you done this with your brothers, Jon? Fighting and training for years, always a battle to win in your mind?" he asked, taking a look at his face to see the pain, and he couldn't help but smirk. "Well, it was all wasted time," he stated, and it was true. Jon didn't only lose the battle of the bastards, he lost his freedom. No whipping or flaying felt as worse as the fact that he belonged to someone, to not be viewed as a true person anymore. 

Jon was grateful that he wore clothing this time, and he watched the snow falling. His tortured face amused Ramsay, and he had the urge to make it completely unrecognizable. There were plenty of ways to hurt him, and most of them weren't even tried out yet. Ramsay had planned something very special for Jon today. 

Ramsay pulled the rope, which caught Jon's attention very quickly, cutting into his neck. "I want to play a game with you today, bastard," he announced, and Jon already knew that he would suffer greatly. Breaking him further was more than often involved in those games, shaping him more into his little plaything that he already was. "I want to see how much you can take before you faint," he told him, eyes becoming wide with excitement. "I've been told that you are very, very strong. You should be able to take most of what I have planned for you," he said, knowing exactly that it was a lie.

Jon was dreading it already, and he hated it to be told that he would have to endure pain. This morning had already started extremely bad. He wanted to scream as his master's boot was on his hand again, crushing the two abused fingers, and he cried out. Sometimes, Ramsay only made him scream because he was bored or wanted to test how painful it would be. He smiled lightly when he imagined what Jon's fingers felt like now, grinding them into the ground until he heard his slave crying quietly. 

Ramsay thought about flaying those already destroyed fingers. Just the image of Jon crying and pleading again in his head made his cock twitch. He removed his boot, and Jon's hand was shaking as he held it to his own chest. He didn't cry because of the pain, but because he had to realize once again what he was. Jon hadn't fully noticed that Ramsay had his bow and arrows with him until now. 

"Come. Let us watch who wins," Ramsay suggested, though it was more of a command than an offer, and he walked with the thick rope in his hand, pulling Jon with him. He would stand and walk, but it was forbidden. Jon crawled after his master, trying to catch up as he became faster. He hissed whenever his hand touched the ground. Ramsay was about to walk down the stairs, and he wasn't particularly interested in making it easy for his bastard slave. Calmly, he walked down, dragging Jon with him, and he heard how he cried out as he fell down the stairs, his poor face being smashed against the stairs and eventually landing in the snow.

Ramsay ignored him and walked toward the fighting men with a bright smile, dropping the rope. One of them had a bloody lip, and he liked to see how far the fight would go. It was always exciting to watch something violent. One swung his fist, and it landed in the other man's stomach, bringing him to the ground with a loud groan. "Hit him in the balls," Ramsay shouted, "It will make him weak." The man turned around, and he knew that it would be advisable to do whatever Ramsay wished. 

He turned back to the man who rose again, bringing his fist to his crotch, and he fell to his knees once again. Ramsay clapped and came closer, and the man who seemingly won didn't seem to be as happy as he was. It was only a stupid fight, and they tried to solve it that way. When Ramsay joined however, it would end differently than they wanted.

"So," Ramsay placed his hand on the man's shoulder, "What is the meaning of this? Why did you beat the shit out of that guy?" he asked and laughed, taking a look at the weaker man that knelt, but he stood up quickly. Brushing dirt off of his clothes, he tried to present himself respectfully. Jon was watching from a short distance, glad that his cruel master was doing something else at the moment.

Both men didn't seem to like each other at all. Ramsay thought that this could be interesting. "Nothing, my lord. He was talking stupid shit," the man beside Ramsay spat, slightly smiling to provoke him. "Dirty bastard," he suddenly growled, and the defeated man shot him a glare. Ramsay raised his brows, though it only amused him further. 

"Well, if he talked stupid shit, make him stop doing it," Ramsay said, and the weaker man's face became blank. It didn't happen often, but sometimes, their lord wanted to be amused, and he tormented some of his own men for it. He didn't want to be the one who had to do it this time. "I would say we remove his tongue," he said with a smirk, and the young man started to panic.

He was innocent and had used the wrong words before, but it wasn't as if he wanted to seriously bother anyone. "My lord, I," he started, his hands trembling, "I didn't mean to cause trouble. Please," he begged, but it wasn't helpful at all. The man beside Ramsay didn't smile anymore and didn't want to harm the other like that. 

"But you did. He had to punch you because of it. Cutting off your tongue will help you to stop bothering him. Now, open your mouth, or I'll change my mind and flay you instead," Ramsay threatened with a calm voice. Jon watched in shock as he saw his master tormenting the young guard. The old Jon would have stopped it, but the old Jon didn't have a rope around his neck like a dog. 

Ramsay took out his knife, showing it to the man who was about to lose his tongue. He was enjoying himself already, and he couldn't wait to inflict even more pain. It was like an addiction. "My lord, you don't have to-" Ramsay turned to the man who won, and he instantly regretted it. "I mean, if I may ask of you to not cut off that," he babbled nervously, and Ramsay almost rolled his eyes. He hated babbling. "My lord-"

"You are both terribly, terribly annoying, do you know that? You are better off as meat for my hounds," Ramsay decided, sealing their fate with one sentence. They were frozen as they stood there, simply staring at him while they were inwardly screaming. "Now open your mouth," Ramsay commanded, stepping toward the weak guard, and he grabbed his chin. He brought his fingers to his tongue, and he was trying to beg. Ramsay didn't waste time and made a smooth cut, removing the body part, and his screams filled the courtyard. Blood landed on the ground, and the other man was filled with terror at the sight. 

Jon couldn't look at the scene in front of him anymore and turned his head. Every movement hurt, and he remembered that Ramsay had planned something for him today. He heard how the man fell to his knees and screamed while the other said nothing at all. The thought about losing his tongue made Jon more afraid. 

Ramsay smiled down at the man, about to wipe the blood on the knife off, and his little slave came to his mind. He forgot about the guards and turned around, walking toward the bastard that made himself small on the ground. Ramsay could sense his fear, his face always changed whenever he saw him. He held the knife to his lips. "Clean my knife, Snow," Ramsay commanded gently.

Jon gulped and stared at the knife. He couldn't see blood anymore, it made him sick. Jon parted his lips, and it hurt terribly. He started to lick the blood off of the knife and grimaced slighty. Ramsay inhaled sharply at the sight, biting his lip at the wonderful image that was right in front of him. How badly he wanted to cut his already destroyed lips. Ramsay couldn't hold himself back, and he did exactly what he was thinking of. Jon moaned in pain, and he wanted to die.

Blood ran down his chin once again, and he saw how the tears flowed down his face. Ramsay grabbed his chin and leaned forward, licking up the tears, and Jon contained a whimper. He was hungry again, hungry to make his slave bleed and scream and cry. His hand remained on his face, and he drew back to look at him. He wanted to remember that face when he will lay in his bed. Jon was truly perfect in every way. He was the reason for his happiness after feeling so lonely when Sansa and Reek escaped.

Ramsay started to place kisses on Jon's face, gently and carefully, and Jon couldn't help but cry in silence. He wasn't sure how to properly react to this sudden sign of affection and remained still. He felt Ramsay's soft lips brushing his cheek. Then, he touched his torn and cut lip with his thumb, shifting back. The gentle behaviour was gone as Ramsay pressed his nails into his bottom lip, earning more noises that revealed his pain. He wanted to destroy that soft, innocent face. "You deserve this, Jon Snow. You know it, don't you?" he asked, imagining how he would press his face into pieces of glass. It would look so beautiful, all those cuts.

Jon nodded slowly, knowing that he always had to agree. His master was never wrong. Ramsay smiled friendly, placing a hand on his cheek. Jon didn't forget what he had said before. His lord wanted to test him, how far he could go. It was a lovely, entertaining game for Ramsay. He stood up, and Jon's eyes followed him. Whatever Ramsay had in his mind, it wasn't good. Instead of taking the rope, he grabbed him by his hair, dragging him as he walked, only to throw him to the ground afterwards.

"Come here, please!" Ramsay shouted, and Jon turned his head to see some of his men, and they didn't look friendly. They looked at each other before they obeyed the command, walking toward Ramsay and his bastard. "You all know who that man is. This is the bastard and traitor Jon Snow, and he refused to kneel before me back then. How do we treat those who defy me?" he asked loudly enough for everyone to hear, and Jon wanted to know what he planned. The men didn't say anything first, but then one of them took a step forward.

"Kill him. Kill the filthy bastard," he spat, glaring at Jon. Jon felt threatened, and he saw how some men started to laugh at him. He heard certain words he wouldn't like to repeat, and some threats he didn't want to come true. "He is a damn traitor. A wildling whore, that's what he is. Look at him," he continued, and Ramsay didn't stop him. He wanted to humiliate his slave, and everyone could participate in it.

"Is that right, Jon? Are you a wildling whore?" Ramsay asked and feigned shock, and the men laughed loudly. "Is my little bastard slave a dirty whore?" he continued, and Jon looked away from him, something he knew that would cause trouble. Ramsay slapped him, and the men didn't contain their chuckling. Jon's lips quivered lightly, and he looked up at him again. Then, his master spat in his face, and he cringed as he heard the men cheering. "That's disgusting! I don't want to know how many of them touched you. Did they take turns on you? Took you like the bitch you are?"

Jon didn't care that the men saw as he started to cry again. He felt ashamed. All of those things weren't true, and the words hurt. Jon wanted to shake his head and to shout at them, but he did nothing as he knelt there. "Son of a bitch!" one shouted. "Bastard!" Jon felt incredibly small and weak, and it was proven that he was right when Ramsay slapped him again, making the men laugh again. "Break his bones!" one suggested, and Jon froze in fear as he saw the happy smile on his master's face. Jon didn't want to have another crushed or cut body part.

"Calm down, please! We have enough time to punish the bastard," he told them. "We should teach him a lesson, shouldn't we?" he suggested, and they cheered loudly. Suddenly, Jon was thrown to the ground, and Ramsay was on top of him. He brought his fist to his face, just like Jon had done it back then, over and over again. Jon couldn't even make a noise and endured it in silence, suffering inside. He made sure to hit his broken nose and his destroyed lips often, adjusting his head after a while. Ramsay's fist was covered in the bastard's blood soon, and his face did look unrecognizable eventually. Jon didn't know how long Ramsay was beating him, but it was long enough to make him feel like the worst piece of shit on the world.

Ramsay stood up and looked down at him, and he was more than pleased. He showed him how it felt like back then, and it seemed that Jon didn't take it well at all. Jon was a poor, misfortunate and stupid man, and he would make sure to remind him of that every single day.

Jon felt pain all over, and his mouth was slightly opened, trying to form words. His face was practically smashed in by Ramsay, and he heard the familiar voices that sneered at him from above as he lay on the ground. A quiet please escaped his lips, but it wasn't heard. He couldn't explain what he felt like right now, and he knew that Ramsay wasn't done with him yet. This was only the start of another, horrible day. Jon didn't think that he would be able to talk for the rest of the day.

"It felt good to do this to me, didn't it, bastard? Leave," Ramsay commanded, and the men did, laughing to each other. Ramsay crouched down and placed his hand on his head. His slave's face looked as if it had been trampled by a horse, and he smiled down at him as he didn't speak. He was too weak now, but he was still awake, which was good for Ramsay. "You won the first round, Snow. You didn't faint! Let us continue the game, shall we?" 

Jon wanted to ask him to be merciful, to get a chance to prove that he understood his place and gave up, but everything that came out of his mouth wasn't understandable. Ramsay couldn't take his eyes off Jon's bloody face. He wanted to rub his cock in that face. It was beautiful. Jon was panting and groaning, slowly starting to move. 

"The bastard is rising!" Ramsay said cheerfully, and as Jon was about to sit up, a boot was on his cheek, pressing him back into the dirt. Jon moaned in pain while Ramsay utterly enjoyed himself. "But not before I say so," he reminded him. It was all way too funny, the whole scenario. Jon was beaten bloody, laying on the ground of Winterfell, the place he grew up at. It had been a wonderful place for him back then, and now everything good he had was ripped away. "We are not done yet, slave. We will go to the woods now. Come on, you are allowed to get on your hands and knees," Ramsay said, and he couldn't wait for round two. Jon spat blood out of his mouth that came from his lips and tried to do as he was told. He truly wanted to die, right here. 

*

Jon had tried to crawl after Ramsay the whole time, trying to use the last strength he had, but he gave up eventually. With a pained groan, he let himself sink to the ground of the woods, not thinking of possible consequences. He felt like nothing, and Ramsay made sure to allow that each day of his new life. There were some memories in his head, his sister Sansa, his dead brothers Robb and Rickon. Jon exactly remembered how his little brother was looking at him as he was about to reach him, a small hint of hope. Ramsay had taken that away from him with one single movement. 

Ramsay was standing beside Jon, feeling excited. He already imagined him trying to run with those exhausted legs, smirking at the idea of him running against a tree. Much time had passed since Ramsay went on a hunt. Sadly, he didn't get to do it much after his marriage, and his father's eyes always stayed on him. He never lost his talent though, and he was just as good with the bow as he was back then.

"Have you ever gone on a hunt, Jon? If so, you probably know what the prey does. It's running, because if it doesn't run, it gets, well," Ramsay said with a chuckle, and he didn't need to give Jon more details to make him understand what will happen now. "You have seen it many times before when you were younger, I believe. Now, get up and run. You have ten seconds. I will shoot when the time is up, and it's up to you if I hit you," he told him. Jon's heart started beating faster, and he could already hear his master preparing his bow. 

He tried to stand, and it hurt. Jon knew that he had to run before he would be hurt further. Stand up, run, try to not get shot. Easy. He tried to think of how the animals ran away when he and his brothers went hunting, but they ended up dead most of the time. Jon eventually stood, and he looked at Ramsay as if he waited for another command, as if it was a joke. What if this was the day he died? Would it even bother him? Or anyone? He could be free of this pain. But Ramsay wouldn't really want him to be free, and Ramsay was his master, the man who made him.

"Run, little bastard," Ramsay said, and he took an arrow. Jon gasped quietly and turned around to run, and he didn't look back as he did. He didn't run for a while now, and it felt strange. Those woods seemed to be familiar. He heard footsteps following him, and he tried to run faster before he would feel great pain again. It wouldn't be hard for Ramsay to find him when snow was covering the ground, revealing his slave's path.

Jon startled when an arrow landed next to his foot, and he tried to change the direction. Breathing became hard, and he desperately searched for a way to hide. He wasn't able to tell if his master would be ready to kill him now, or if he was just playing the game he talked about before. Jon found a big tree and hid behind it. He was breathing heavily and was shaking all over. Jon tried to be as calm as possible. He looked down at his hand, seeing his two tortured fingers. 

Jon took a quick look to see if Ramsay was in near sight. He wasn't there, and he managed to be calm for a very short moment. Suddenly, a hand was on his mouth, pulling him back. Ramsay had caught him, and he was smirking as he felt Jon wiggle. There was still blood on his face, and Ramsay had the urge to lick it all off. He leaned forward to whisper into his ear, and he saw how he was panicking. "I caught you. I expected you to be better, Snow," he purred, and Jon shut his eyes. He didn't want to acknowledge all of this. "This is boring. Very boring. I don't want to be bored," he growled, spit hitting Jon's face as he did. "So I have a suggestion for you. You either entertain me and run, or I'll crush another bone in your body. You can choose."

Jon made his decision, and he ran. He tried to run as fast as he could, almost falling to the ground. Ramsay watched as he did, smiling to himself as he already planned everything in his head. His slave thought that there was a way to be spared. He ran after him, preparing another arrow. Jon wasn't in sight, but he could tell where he was heading to. Ramsay had hunted so often that he knew every little trick. Jon was even more stupid than Tansy and Kira, and all the others were. He had fucked those girls before he killed them at least.

"Jon!" Ramsay shouted through the woods with a playful tone, getting closer once again. He saw him from a distance, and he drew his bow to shoot. Of course, he missed him on purpose, and it hit the tree near his slave. Jon gasped and ran into another direction. He thought that he was safe, but then, he slipped. Jon shouted as he slid down a slope, and he was rolling down until he eventually hit the ground. He didn't know where he was, and it seemed that he had left the woods. Jon looked up and saw a large tree. Maybe he could hide down there, and Ramsay wouldn't find him. 

Ramsay saw that Jon disappeared suddenly. He was out of sight, and he looked around, knowing that he was hiding somewhere. The woods were big enough to get lost, and his little bastard seemed to be at the moment. He should have taken his hounds with him. Jon was entertaining him finally, and it felt like a real hunt. 

Jon was on his stomach, and he still didn't hear Ramsay's steps following him. His lips started to bleed again after it hit the ground several times before, and he tried to be as silent as he could. This must be how Sansa, Theon and Rickon felt. Running away from Ramsay was probably one of the worst things that could happen. Jon stood up and ran toward the river. Something in his mind told him to leave, to escape and leave Ramsay Bolton behind. Perhaps it was the old Jon, and Jon couldn't resist. The feeling of being free would be wonderful. 

Jon saw the large, strong river. It was very cold, and it would feel horrible to step inside. He turned around, and Ramsay wasn't in sight. Jon knew that it was wrong to run away from his master, but there was something inside of him that made him run into that direction. He was so close to freedom; he only needed to pass the river, to be free again. Jon gulped, and he was about to enter the river. An arrow pierced his shoulder, and he screamed as he fell to the ground, landing on his ass. His hand tried to reach for the arrow automatically, but the pain was to great to move properly.

Ramsay lowered the bow and walked toward the crying bastard that tried to escape. "Very good, Jon! But sadly not good enough to escape!" he mocked. He wasn't even angry because of his attempt. It amused him greatly. "You were leaving the woods, bastard. That is against the rules," Ramsay said, and he knelt beside Jon. He grabbed his hand with the two mutilated fingers, and Jon stared at him. Ramsay crushed the fingers in his fist, making him cry out, and he twisted them brutally before he bent then back until they broke.

Jon's screams were loud enough to reach Winterfell, and he watched the destroyed fingers with a happy grin. There it was. Everything was getting blurry, and he blinked many times before he eventually fainted, his back hitting the ground again. Ramsay only smiled as he reached his goal, and he sat down. He would wait until Jon woke up, only to torment him further. It only began.


	3. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is planning to save Jon. Petyr tries to convince her. Jon doesn't have a good day.

Sansa sighed with her hand pressed to her forehead. The battle was lost, and so was her brother Jon Snow. She had told him about Ramsay numerous times, but he was never fully convinced of his cruelty, believing that he could escape it somehow. Sansa was Ramsay's wife, or better, had been. She wouldn't consider herself the lady of a Bolton. She knew how he was, and what he would love to do to Jon, who was now in his possession. Sansa couldn't decide if she was angry or shocked. 

After Winterfell was lost, and Jon had disappeared, Sansa was told to leave and be safe. She remembered how their army was destroyed, and it could have been prevented. Petyr had told her that he had an army, but after he had handed her over to the Boltons, she refused to accept his offer. She shouldn't have done so, she now realized. 

Sansa was at Bear Island at the moment. She had thought about hiding at Castle Black again first, but Ramsay would instantly think of that too. Lyanna had offered her a safe place after she was forced to watch how her own brother rode after Ramsay and never came back. Sansa didn't want to believe that he had killed Jon. She knew that Ramsay preferred to torture him for a long time before he did that. He had his own ways of doing things. 

"Are you alright, my lady?" Sansa looked up and saw Brienne. The rest of the people that hid at Castle Black had accompanied Sansa, and they were grateful that Lyanna Mormont accepted it. After all, she wasn't interested in helping the Starks in the first place. Sansa didn't give her an answer, not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't find a proper way. The moment she will speak out her husband's name, she will end up crying. Brienne knew what Sansa felt like right now, but she couldn't help but to express her pity. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Sansa shook her head and quickly wiped a tear from her face. She was smiling, not exactly knowing the reason for it. Someone was asking her how she felt while her own brother was probably screaming. Biting her smile back, she looked up. "Thank you. I don't need anything at the moment." _Just peace._ Sansa liked it to be alone in those kind of situations, especially since she married Ramsay. She was the only person she could trust, the only person that could protect her. It will always be herself. Petyr was a liar, Joffrey was dead and evil, and Ramsay was even worse then both of them. 

Brienne nodded and knew that Lady Sansa didn't want to be bothered. Sansa watched as she left, and she appreciated the way she cared about her. Not many people did that nowadays without having a benefit from it. She felt as if she needed some air, and so she rose from her seat to leave the castle for a moment. Of course, this was noticed, and Lyanna looked over at her from a distance as she was discussing with other men. "Lady Sansa?" 

Sansa turned arond as she heard the voice of the girl who saved her. It became silent, and all eyes were on her. She felt disgusted as she recognized Petyr's eyes that were glued to her. "I am leaving the castle for a short moment, Lady Mormont. I will be back soon," she assured, but she wouldn't leave before Lyanna wouldn't agree. The young girl had a worried look on her face and tilted her head. 

"I worry for you, my lady. It's too dangerous for you to leave the castle alone. Someone will go with you. It's for your own safety," she assured, and Sansa sighed inwardly. There it was again. For her safety. Sansa wouldn't get captured as easily as Jon did. It wasn't quite friendly to think so, but it was the bitter truth. She would have never run after Ramsay, no matter how furious she was. Jon always had a weak spot when it came to his emotions, and it will cost him his life soon.

"I will go with her," Petyr said and stepped forward. Brienne glared at him, and she opened her mouth to stop him from doing so. "It's the least I can do for you, my lady." Lyanna didn't look bothered, and she gave Petyr a nod. Sansa saw him smile lightly for a moment. 

"Good. But return as soon as you can. He may send his men for you," she warned Sansa, talking about Ramsay. Petyr nodded and slowly walked toward Sansa, and she stiffened as he got closer. She didn't want this man to be near her. Thinking about him once loving her own mother made her feel more uncomfortable. She remembered how he had kissed her for the first time, and it didn't feel right. He didn't love her, he used her. Petyr probably didn't love anyone.

*

The wind caused Sansa's hair to be completely brushed off her face as she looked at the sky. It felt good to be outside again, even if she knew that Jon was suffering now. She will try everything to save her brother and to kill Ramsay Bolton. He deserved to die screaming. All the people he tortured, hunted and killed for amusement didn't deserve this fate. He thought that he won, that he had Winterfell, but Sansa will show him that his dream of his won't last. 

"I feel truly sorry for you, my lady. I wish I could have helped you to save your brother before it was too late," Petyr told her as he stood behind her, and she knew that it was a dirty lie. He was waiting for this moment for a very long time. "Together, we will beat Ramsay Bolton and take what is yours." Sansa rolled her eyes and turned around. She wasn't in the mood for his manipulative talking, especially not when it came to her brother. Petyr had sold her to Ramsay, so he would be the last person to fight him. 

"We, Lord Baelish? I don't think that you can help me," she almost spat. "This is a thing that I have to take care of. With people I can trust," she added, her tone filled with hatred toward the man stood in front of her. Petyr already tried to find a way to change her mind, but Sansa was smarter than before. Petyr clenched his jaw, and Sansa noticed that her rough answers weren't pleasing him. She wasn't interested in acting gentle and humble since the battle was over. She should have stopped being that a long time ago.

"Lady Sansa, I have made mistakes, and I deeply regret them. Please, give me a chance to prove that I changed." He stepped closer, trying to place his hand on her shoulder to calm her down, but she backed off immediately. Sansa felt like slapping him, and she tried to contain herself. 

"You knew what Ramsay was. Everyone did. You knew everyone's secrets, so don't tell me you didn't hear of the man who flayed and tortured innocent people. His father killed my mother and my brother, and yet you handed me over like some goat. Ramsay destroyed me the day we married. And it's all your fault," she said, her voice serious and cold. "Have you ever thought of anyone else, maybe for a single moment? Have you considered sparing me from this pain? Of course you didn't," Sansa said and snorted. "Your goals are more important to you than I am. You would have let Ramsay kill me if you have gotten what you want for it."

Petyr's face revealed shock, and he started to shake his head. "No, Sansa. I would have _never_ allowed the marriage if I had known about Ramsay. Please believe me, my lady. I am telling the truth. I didn't know Ramsay Bolton." 

Sansa shook her head in disbelief and let out a laugh. "You still try to defend yourself, Lord Baelish. We both know that you are lying. When will you finally stop trying to lie to me? You lied to my mother, and now you are lying to me. You should have pledged yourself to House Bolton, it would have suited you better," she spat, and she walked away from him. Pain spread on Petyr's face as he heard what she said. 

"Lady Sansa, I wouldn't dream of it! What I did was unforgivable, and I understand your anger. But please, let me show you that I am honest with you. I will," he paused for a short moment, his hand turning into a fist as he spoke. "I will kill Ramsay Bolton," he said.

Sansa stopped walking. Did Petyr really offer to murder the man who captured her brother? Her brother, whom Petyr wanted to disappear? Did he truly believe that she was so dumb? "He would kill you first," she simply stated, and walked back inside, leaving Petyr behind.

*

_Rickon giggled when Jon picked him up to cuddle him after returning to Winterfell. His little brother brought his little hands to his back, excited because of their reunion. Jon let him stand on the ground again and ruffled his wild hair. "Were you having fun, Rickon?" he asked, and Rickon was nodding cheerfully, pointing his fingers at Bran and a few other boys who learned to shoot with the bow. Rickon wanted to learn it too, but he was way too young._

__

_"I did! Bran told me that he will teach me how to shoot at my nameday! Will you help me too, Jon? So I can be as good as you and Robb and Bran? And Father?" he asked, and Jon chuckled, fascinated by his energy and will to learn. It felt good to be around his family again._

_"Of course I will. One day, you'll be just as strong as Robb and Father. Maybe even stronger. You'll be a Lord of Winterfell," he told him, and Rickon's eyes became wide with fascination. He had dreamed of being a lord like his father Ned for a long time. "There are many things to learn beside the bow," Jon began as he put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "You'll learn how to ride, how to fight with the sword, how to take care of things like Mother and Father. You have to take care and protect your people, your family."_

_Rickon nodded, and he hugged Jon's legs. "I will always protect you, Jon! And our sisters and brothers, and our parents. I will be the Warden of the North, just like Father! And then I will make you the King of Westeros!" Rickon promised cheerfully, and Jon laughed gently._

*

Jon's eyes opened, and what he saw was pure darkness. He was groaning as the pain came back, grimacing when it intensified. The memories came back like parts from a nightmare. He saw himself running through the woods, being beaten until his face was covered in blood, being shot with an arrow, but the thing that dominated his mind was Ramsay's smile. He was wondering why in the Seven Hells he was there, but then he was reminded of the fact that he wasn't like he was before. Ramsay had broken him.

He felt something on his shoulder, and he hissed. "Very well, Maester Wolkan. Thank you," he heard Ramsay saying, and it was confusing to not be able to see. Jon felt that the arrow was gone, but his wound was still hurting, just as his face and his fingers. One person seemed to leave the room, and a door was shut. Jon was nervous and breathed unsteadily, looking around to see, but it remained completely dark. Had Ramsay taken his eyes?

Ramsay's hand was on his head, and Jon could see. He had removed a rag that was supposedly used as a blindfold. It was still quite blurry, but he managed to see Ramsay's face clearly as it smiled down at him. Jon gulped down blood and spat it out immediately, feeling disgusted. It seemed that he lay on a table, and the room was not looking like a dungeon. Ramsay leaned down, and his wet tongue collected the fresh, red liquid. Jon wanted to whine, but his throat hurt too much to make a proper noise. A fist was in his hair, and he felt violated as Ramsay licked more dried blood off his face. 

His cheek was covered in Ramsay's spit, and it felt even worse when he licked more off, practically cleaning his whole face with his tongue. He was taking his time, and Jon wanted to scream. He wished that he could be free, to not be tied to this table. There was no way he could get off of it, and he had to endure what the Bolton was doing. He let his tongue run over his split lips, and a soft whimper escaped Jon's throat. 

Ramsay drew back, the corners of his lips covered in Jon's blood. "It's still dirty," he commented with furrowed brows, reaching for a wet rag. Jon wanted to prostest, but the soaked rag was already smothering his words as it was used to scrub his face, and Ramsay wasn't particularly gentle. Ramsay pressed the wet rag on his nose, scrubbing especially hard as he cleaned every spot, knowing how much pain it brought him. He contined and rubbed the thing against his lips, making rough and harsh circles. 

He plunged it into the water that was in the bucket that stood nearby, and Jon suffered inwardly as Ramsay returned with the even more soaked and wet rag, thoroughly cleaning his face to the point it hurt. Jon spoke up, but the cold water filled his mouth as Ramsay ran it over his lips again, smiling softly as he tormented him. Finally, he set it aside, watching Jon's clean face. The blood was gone, but there were many scars. Ramsay started to kiss every single one of them, and Jon almost started to struggle.

Ramsay was overwhelmed by the power he held over Jon, and he kissed him on the lips. His slave was shocked and didn't kiss him back, but that didn't seem to bother his master anyway. He kept violating his lips for a while and drew back, the smile never leaving his face. "I'm glad to see that you are awake, bastard. Maester Wolkan has looked at your fingers and your shoulder. It should heal soon. Unless you damage them further, of course," Ramsay mused with a playful tone, his hand searching for Jon's. "We wouldn't want that to happen, do we?" Ramsay said as he pressed his own hand down his fingers, pinning them to the wooden table.

Jon groaned, and he looked up to see that his fingers had been bandaged. They were still hurting, and Ramsay took advantage of that. He had hunted him down and destroyed his soul further; it had shattered. Jon shook his head, and Ramsay's hand left his broken fingers, placing it on his cheek as he sat on the large table. He slapped him, chuckling as his head was smacked to the other side as he groaned. 

"You'll behave from now on. I have plenty of other ways to make you feel great pain, and I wouldn't provoke it if I were you. Understood, Jon?" he asked, grabbing a fist full of his hair. Ramsay already had certain ways in his head, and they would make Jon scream louder than an arrow ever could. "I asked you a question," he warned again, and Jon immediately nodded. 

"Yes. Yes, Master Ramsay, I understand." Ramsay let out a low chuckle and stood up again, leaving Jon on the table. 

"I hope so, Jon. I feel merciful today, so I decide to let you rest a bit. When I return, I expect complete obedience." Today? Jon must have slept more than one day. Jon nodded again, and he was actually happy to be left alone for once in a while. The relief came too soon, and Ramsay took out his flaying knife. He feared to be cut again, but he simply held it to his lips. "Kiss it."

Jon looked up at him with fear in his eyes, and he obeyed the command, his lips making contact with the cold metal. Ramsay smirked and put his knife back. He gave Jon a pat on the head and started to walk toward the door. Ramsay left, and as he closed the door behind him, he made sure to lock it. He could hear how Jon started to cry and walked away with a smile on his face.


	4. Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon suffers. Sansa meets someone new.

Jon pulled at the restraints with his full strength, even if it was barely there anymore. He was stuck to the big table for some time now, and he was only being visited by some unfamiliar men that brought him water. His throat was dry, his face was full of scars, and his bandaged fingers twitched occasionally. Ramsay had twisted and crushed and squeezed them until they broke, but he got used to it. Jon tried to lick his lips to get rid of the dryness. His tongue meeting the bruised flesh hurt, and he hissed quickly. 

He hated being alone. His master hurt him and loved to torture him, but at least he gave him the feeling of being useful. Whenever he saw Ramsay smirk after he let out a cry, a part of him felt like he had done his duty. Jon wouldn't even need to make a noise to show his suffering, how low and dirty he actually felt whenever Ramsay laid his eyes on him. He almost forgot that a hole was in his shoulder, and it luckily seemed to heal. 

Jon looked at the ceiling, moving his feet around as he had the urge to properly move, but he was practically trapped. He thought about shouting, shouting for Ramsay, and when he attempted it, it came out as a pathetic, raw whimper. Jon coughed and cleared his throat, and he started to shout again. He wanted to be free of those restraints, and he already swore not to disobey again. Jon would never disobey again.

A man had brought him water about an hour ago, and he didn't say anything about Ramsay. 'Open' and 'Stay still' were the only commands used before he left, and unfortunately, half of the water didn't end up in his mouth and landed on the wooden table instead. After the guard had left, Jon tried to lick it up with his tongue, but he didn't quite manage it and gave up. Ramsay would have laughed at his face or even hit him for his stupidity.

There he lay, frustrated and lonely. He was wishing for Ramsay to return, but he feared it at the same time. Jon couldn't control his feelings, especially after his master broke him into pieces, and worrying because of him seeemed to be normal to him. There were brief memories in his head, a girl with red hair and a young boy with wild curls, falling to the ground as an arrow pierced him. They were his family, or at least they were. Jon Snow was their brother, but the bastard pet of Ramsay Bolton didn't have any brothers or sisters.

When the door opened, Jon let out a frightened, little moan and stared at the figure that appeared. He automatically tensed up and felt his heart beating quickly in his chest. Jon hoped that it wouldn't be another punishment or a beating. He could remember the looks the men had given him as he lay on the ground with his bloody face after Ramsay had used his fist to thoroughly smash it. Was he angry at him? Would he pull out his flaying knife and cut bits off of him? Both thoughts were equally scary.

Ramsay stopped walking as he reached the table and held a cup to Jon's ugly lips. Jon studied his face, trying to detect any hints, but it wasn't quite clear what the Bolton wad thinking. The liquid filled his mouth, and he almost choked on it. It wasn't water, but something that was even better. He gulped down the wine, almost greedily, savouring it after not tasting it for some time now. Jon feared that it would be poisoned for a short moment, but he didn't think that Ramsay would let him die that way. Even if it was a horrible fact, Ramsay would have given him a much more painful death.

The empty cup was set aside, and Jon couldn't stop his fingers from shaking. Ramsay sat down on the table and watched Jon with a calm expression, and for some reason, Jon felt guilty. He had made him become so determined to hurt him, especially when he provoked a battle. If he had simply knelt, everything would be different. At least he liked to believe that. He was grateful to be in Ramsay's possession, he kept him alive. Somehow, he felt safe. Jon realized that, now after he actually tried to escape which resulted in him getting shot by an arrow. He had learned his lesson now, and he knew his place.

Ramsay's hand was in Jon's hair, softly playing with it while he looking at his face. The thick binds had cut so deeply in Jon's wrists and ankles, his throat was begging for water and he looked so devastated that it made him smile, even if he was disappointed in him. Ramsay often thought about hurting him when he wouldn't expect it; those screams were the best. It was hard resisting doing so, but his slave's misery would never end. He was born to be his toy.

"You know that you deserved your punishment, don't you? I hate disobedience, Jon, and you were _very_ disobedient when you tried to run away from me." The expression on Ramsay's face stirred more guilt in Jon, and he caught himself shedding a tear. The whole situation was overwhelming, and he felt like the worst creature on the world. He felt bad and treacherous, and it wasn't what he should have done. His lord wouldn't trust him anymore. Ramsay watched him cry in silence. 

"I am sorry," Jon breathed, leaning into Ramsay's touch to feel comfort, the comfort he didn't deserve. He was so merciful and kept him alive after he tried to betray him. The weak bastard opened his mouth to mumble another apology, but he couldn't as he felt his lips sting. Ramsay kept looking at him with his icy eyes, and he couldn't tell what he had in mind. 

"Now, we have to teach you how to know your place better. Your place is here, you are mine. You don't just run away like that, Jon," Ramsay explained surprisingly sweet, as if lecturing a clumsy child. "I didn't want to do this, Jon, but you leave me no other choice. You had the privilege of running around without being restrained. That was before your stupid, silly attempt." Ramsay smiled slightly as he saw the pain in Jon's face. He sure had hoped to be free, but it only began. "This time, you will learn how it feels to not have said privilege. You will stay here until I am convinced that you have learned. Don't worry. I won't let you starve. I will look out for you. But there is no way for you escape this. You'll have to get used to sleeping in your own, rotting piss," he added cruelly, making sure to prepare his disobedient slave.

Jon's chest moved up and down quickly at the thought of being trapped on this table for a longer time. How long would he be there? Will Ramsay forgive him? He felt horrible. 

"It will get very _boring_ up here, I am afraid. It would be so much better to drink wine and laugh with us at the dinner table, to take a walk, to accompany me," Ramsay said, and it felt like shoving a dagger into Jon's chest. "I am very disappointed in you, Jon. Very, very disappointed. If you weren't so special to me, I would have fed you to my beasts."

"Please don't-" Jon babbled without even thinking about what he was doing. He stopped himself from continuing, but Ramsay was already curious and lifted his brows. 

"Please what, bastard? What is it that you want to beg for?" Ramsay hated babbling and endless whining that consisted of words that didn't make sense. It bored him, and if Jon bored him, it would mean great suffering for him. All those girls that bored him ended up the same way -- screeching and screaming as they tried to escape Ramsay's dangerous, sharp arrows and the hounds that were hungry for blood and fresh meat. _Poor girls_ , Ramsay thought mockingly. He remembered how he fucked Tansy until she was shaking, leaving her to beg for more. But then Myranda came along, and Myranda didn't like Tansy. She would have been killed anyway, Tansy was a little, frightened bird that was too weak and dull, but fucking her felt good. Myranda was better, and his wife -- his beautiful wife -- was wonderful.

Jon started to breathe heavily. "I beg your forgiveness, my lord. Please give me a chance. I have thought about my mistakes and I regret them deeply. I beg you, my lord." Ramsay almost admired the way Jon managed to make those big, sad eyes and that pitiful face. He stroked the side of his head again before he held his cheek, giving Jon hope.

"No," he simply said, and his expression was priceless. "A punishment is a punishment. I am already merciful with you, do you want to change that? Do you want me to whip your back in the courtyard? To let my men laugh and spit at you? Or do you want me to punish you like I used to punish girls?"

Jon shook his head, and for some reason, he caught himself grabbing Ramsay's hand. He felt safe. Ramsay looked down and was surprised, but he wasn't angry. Instead, he ran his thumb over his bastard's shaking hand. "I will be good, master. I swear it." Jon would have kissed his hand if it had been possible, and his eyes didn't leave Ramsay's gaze. 

"Oh, you will. I will break you completely." He paused. "You didn't really believe that I was done with you, did you? No. There is still something of the old Jon Snow inside of you. I will make him disappear, and then, bastard, you'll be nothing but a loyal dog. This is what you are meant to be. Try to run again, and you'll lose your feet."

Ramsay squeezed Jon's hand as he went on, eliciting a pained sigh. He knew that he wouldn't leave this room before he hurt him. The table was just a way to assure that he won't try to run. The real pain would come, the humiliation he deserved. Ramsay imagined how his fingers would enter Jon's sockets, his reaction when his tongue would be removed with a single cut, silencing him forever. Maybe he should sew his mouth shut. The thought was arousing.

"I won't run, my lord," Jon said with a sincere voice, and Ramsay knew that he was probably saying the truth, but that didn't mean that he could get away with it. Ramsay chuckled softy and leaned down, bringing his face closer.

"Yes, bastard, you won't," he almost hissed, showing his teeth. They were sharp, Jon noticed, almost like teeth from a beast. The hand on his cheek was now on his throat, starting to squeeze. Jon gasped and choked on his own spit, beginning to cough, but it was almost impossible to do so correctly. Ramsay's grip was firm, and he looked down at him ever so calmly. He had beaten his poor face until it was bloody, and he wanted to do it again, to watch him suffer and hear him cry. Ramsay removed his hand and backhanded Jon, and it was too quick for him to make a noise. The tears in his eyes already revealed his feelings. He grabbed his face and forced him to make eye contact. "You will know your place even better than you do now when I am done with you," he promised and smirked viciously.

"I know my place!" Jon suddenly shouted and started to shiver. "I want to be g-" He was cut off when Ramsay slapped him a second time, this time more harsh, and he started to get irritated. Jon babbled, and it was highly annoying. There was no way for him to get away. His cheeks reddened, and he felt even worse. 

"You clearly do not, Jon," he said, almost bored. Not severely hurting or humiliating his slave was so boring. He was much more entertaining when he was crying and begging. Ramsay's hand was on Jon's lower stomach, and he started to press down. Jon almost screamed as he felt the pressure on his bladder. As soon as he saw the change of his expression, Ramsay enjoyed himself, and he continued to press. He knew that his men had come to give him water, and he hadn't taken a piss for a while now. Jon would be too embarrassed to do this on the table. "Come on, Jon, do it," Ramsay told him with a gentle voice, and he started to struggle. He didn't want this.

"No, please," Jon begged, feeling his face heating up. He would rather be beaten and cut and hunted than to be forced to do this in front of him. Ramsay smiled, alternating between pressing down on the spot and keeping his hand still. Jon groaned when he felt two fingers pressing down, even stronger than before, and he tried to refrain himself from relieving himself. "No-"

The fabric of Jon's pants became wet, and a puddle started to form. It ran down his thigh, and it didn't smell particularly well. Jon felt so humiliated that he started to cry. Of course Ramsay wouldn't be merciful. He should have known. Jon had to entertain and amuse him, no matter if he was good or bad. It was disgusting, and he wished that he could get away from the table, to not lay in the yellow liquid that would be stuck to his clothes later. Jon hated himself for trying to run.

"Very good, Jon! That's a good boy," he taunted and couldn't contain his laughter. Jon looked so pitiful to him, and he enjoyed every second. Ramsay grimaced to further humiliate him as the smell hit his nose. He instantly rose. "You smell like a dead horse, bastard." Jon was crying and turned his head away, not able to look into his lord's eyes. It was terrible. "Are you looking away from me?" Ramsay asked with a more calm voice, but he didn't seem to be happy. Jon made mistakes constantly, and he couldn't stop. He was causing his own suffering.

Jon's hair was pulled, and he let out a groan. He wanted it to end. He wanted to be the good Jon, the good bastard that obeyed Ramsay. 

"I will let you rot here if you don't behave. I will. I can find someone else if I grow tired of you. Do you want me to become tired of you? To vanish?" The grip of his fist was strong, and Jon shut his eyes automatically as Ramsay's spit was on his face. Again. "You are disgusting. I don't even know why I keep you. Probably because your flinching and screaming is so funny to me," he stated. "And to remind me that you lost." 

Without another word, Ramsay let go of him and turned around, ready to leave. Jon remained on the table and tried his best not to scream for mercy. It was too late for him, and now he was facing his punishment. Laying in his own piss, he suffered greatly.

*

Sansa was sitting outside, lonely and calm. Her hands were in her lap, and she stared at the ground. Nothing seemed to made sense anymore. Her brother Jon Snow was the captive of the evil bastard Ramsay Bolton, and Petyr Baelish was only making everything worse. The battle was almost won, but Jon messed it up and fell for Ramsay's trick. The snow was falling, and she found it fascinating somehow. For a short moment, it was peaceful.

She wasn't in her home. It would feel much better if she were. Sansa wanted to see Ramsay's head fall to the ground. _Just like it happened to my father, but my father didn't deserve it._ Sansa shut her eyes and tried not to think of her father Ned. Rickon was dead. Robb was dead. Arya was probably dead, and so was Bran. She was the last Stark. 

"Are you alright, my lady?" Sansa looked up, almost startled, and she saw a young man she had never seen before. He was handsome, she noticed, but that wasn't helping her in any way. She wanted peace. Sansa wanted to snap at him, to tell him to leave her alone, and another part wanted comfort. Uncomfortably, she shifted, and she tried to look more approachable. 

"Yes, I am alright," she answered and gave him a quick look before she looked at her hands again. She wasn't feeling well; she felt empty and cold. Another glace was made, and she noticed that the man wasn't attempting to leave. At least it wasn't Littlefinger. Still, there was nobody she wanted to trust right now. She was wounded enough. Another problem would only make it worse. Sansa was watching the snow fall, and she found the wind in her hair comforting.

"I know we haven't talked much, my lady- Lady Stark, I just saw you leave and I thought I should look and-" he was obviously nervous, not even looking into her eyes as he talked. He only did it rarely. His brown hair covered one of his green eyes, and his face was soft, not too soft though. He seemed to be a bit older than her, maybe even older than Jon. Sansa wouldn't call him shy in general; it wasn't easy to tell what he was like. He would be damned if he was one of Petyr's little spies, that was sure. Sansa isn't afraid to attack anymore.

"Why would you care about someone who doesn't even know you? Excuse me, but I am not seeking company right now," she responded with a rather cold voice, looking at him with a calm face, almost clenching her jaw. Was there a place where she could finally be alone? She remembered how Margaery was with her often, and she never annoyed her with anything. Somehow, she trusted her. But now she was dead.

The young man raised his eyebrows at her, slightly confused, but he did appear friendly still. "Forgive me, my lady. I wasn't intending to bother you. If you wish me to leave, I will." Sansa was surprised at how willing he was to turn around and just go. It pleased her, but somehow, she didn't want him to leave anymore. He was already turning around.

"Wait. Stay," she told him, and he turned around slowly. Maybe he was just being concerned after all. She was on Bear Island, who could possibly harm her here? Dangers were everywhere, but she admitted that she would feel better with someone on her side that was actually not planning to torture or use her. Her hands were on her lap, and she looked down for a moment. "I didn't want to sound so harsh."

"You weren't. I can understand how someone would react this way, someone who suffered so much like you. I heard of it. I am terrified. Ramsay Bolton will never have you again, Lady Stark." That sudden promise almost threw her off guard, and she quickly looked up at him. She heard that disgusting name and shut her eyes. Never again. "We will protect you. The Northerners don't leave each other behind. We all fought against the bastard that stole your home, and we will again. Trust me. He didn't win this battle," he assured her, and he got more serious this time. Sansa liked it.

"The Boltons are Northerners too and slaughtered us," she said back, not too impressed by his words. "He has my brother. Fortunately, I know that he won't kill him yet. He enjoys his suffering way too much," she explained as she felt pure disgust. The man listened as he took a seat beside her. "Do you really think that fighting against him is that easy? Jon fell for his trap and rode towards him and now he is rotting in a dungeon."

"My lady. Look at you. You are here with us, aren't you? You probably thought you would never be free, but you are. Don't lose your hope yet," he told her, shifting closer until their thighs almost touched, and she looked at him for a short moment, thinking about his words. There was something about it that made her want to believe him. Maybe it was because of his green, interesting eyes or his strong figure that was able to protect her. "I want you to be able to trust us. To trust me. I feel like we two can talk to each other without being concerned. It feels nice to have someone like that. I think you are someone who can understand many things."

"Your words are kind. But I don't know if I am ready to open up yet. I feel like," she paused for a short moment, hesitating to continue. Was it really safe to talk to this man she just met? She wasn't feeling threatened, but she had met many people who tricked her. "I feel like I am not safe anywhere." Sansa stood up quickly, and his eyes followed her. The Stark exhaled and looked at the castle where she was currently hiding at. "This is the only place Ramsay hasn't attacked yet. But he will. I know him. He has Jon, and now he wants me. And when he has me, I will lose everything that makes me human."

Sansa felt like making a mistake by telling him all of this, but she just needed to let it all out, and this man wasn't Petyr Baelish. Maybe opening up in the place she was safe was a good start. "No, my lady. You will always remain human. Ramsay is the one who lost that by doing all those horrible things. Do not compare yourself to a monster. He will not find you. As soon as he or his people will reach this island, we will cut off their heads."

Sansa turned around, not sure what she should say. His words were so kind. He told her things she always wanted to hear, even if she shouldn't really care about the opinion of someone else. But there was a chance of making an actual friend here. "I hope so," she said, smiling lightly.


End file.
